


for when you are twenty-one and have no idea what you need

by amorremanet



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (of the Hales and Mama Lahey), Camden Lahey Is Bad At Feelings, Clinging, Codependency, Complicated Relationships, Depression, Despair, Desperation, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Everything Hurts, Headcanon, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired by Poetry, Kissing, Lahey Family Feels, M/M, Neediness, New York City, Originally Posted on Tumblr, POV Camden Lahey, POV Second Person, Past Abuse, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Poetry, Post Hale Fire, Prose Poem, Protectiveness, Self-Hatred, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Suicidal Thoughts, The Author Regrets Everything, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Universe Alteration, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Vaguely Codependent Laheys, at least it was stylistically inspired by him so…, richard siken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-03-16 19:11:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3499715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>You are twenty-one and home on leave and you want to suck your not so secretly a werewolf best friend’s cock.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	for when you are twenty-one and have no idea what you need

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElasticElla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticElla/gifts), [solvecoagula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/solvecoagula/gifts).



> Originally posted [here](http://amorremanet.tumblr.com/post/103793244807/this-is-apparently-what-happens-when-i-tell). The author wants to have something to say for herself, but I honestly can't think of anything.

You are twenty-one and home on leave and you want to suck your not so secretly a werewolf best friend’s cock.

Never mind his sisters sleeping in their Crown Heights apartment’s other rooms. Never mind they’re werewolves too, so if you do it, then they’ll hear. Never mind the sleepless nights spent wishing for the U.S. Army to wave a magic wand and make you wake up straight. Never mind the lot of it, you want to suck his cock and you want to suck it  _now_.

Why wouldn’t you, then? When he’s lying there right next to you, corpse white bleached in the mixed up city lights that stumble through his window, his black hair all a tousled mess, not sleeping in the same way that you’re not sleeping, just for different reasons.

Because where he sees a house on fire, you see the hard glint of light on your Dad’s glasses, the knife’s edge flash of his teeth when his lips twisted up into a smirk.

Where he hears wails, screams, and howls, some of them his own, you hear the drill sergeant’s bark from back in basic, and remember how it was never worse than Dad’s old cold snap laugh, couldn’t compare to a sneer at what a joke you are, standing there at attention, all in uniform and your childhood kitchen.

That’s all you are: a joke. Probably, that’s all you ever will be. A little boy who’s sad and scared and soft inside, who’s overgrown and all dressed up, pretending he’s a soldier like saying it and standing right could make that daydream true. Pretending he deserves his gleaming, golden First Lieutenant’s stripes.

Or worse than that, you hear the yelling, the demands, the endless outflow of  _how could you let that happen, what kind of older brother do you think you are, Isaac’s lucky that he didn’t die this weekend, you know that, don’t you_ , all fresh from the vine and you might as well be skinny sixteen and trying not to cower because you know your father’s right but don’t want to let him have that satisfaction.

Except you aren’t sixteen; you’re twenty-one. And this time, when you can’t sleep, you haven’t failed your baby brother by letting him slip and hit his head and fall into the backyard pool.

No, this time, you’ve done something so much worse, and because it’s not enough for you to ruin everything, Isaac knows now that you’re no superhero, you can’t save him. Shame slimes up your skin and clogs your throat and dulls your tongue, just thinking on the plans you’ve made to off yourself, the thoughts you’ve entertained about where and when and how and how your rifle’s more effective but hanging seems more appropriate but maybe your squad-mates will find out you’re gay and solve the problem for you, the fact that every morning is another war you fight to simply drag yourself up out of bed because everything around you has the stony, statuesque inanimateness of death and graveyards and you know for certain, in your heart and in your bones, that there’s no way this can get better.

It’s ten times worse to think of Isaac, of the way he walked in on you sobbing yourself dry about them and when he asked you what was wrong, you told him everything and for fuck’s sakes, who the Hell dumps this kind of thing on a fucking twelve-year-old. Nearly killing him again might’ve been the kinder fuck up, even if Isaac’s better off without you which isn’t a matter for discussion because anybody would be.

Which doesn’t change the current facts of things: you’re twenty-one and bedding down with Derek, because his bed’s big enough for two and he wouldn’t just let you take the couch. Because you stopped off in New York to see him after he and Laura and their baby sister who hates your guts weren’t back home in Beacon Hills. Because he picked you up at JFK so you wouldn’t have to hack through public transit down to Brooklyn on your own. _  
_

Because the moment that you saw him there, you ran over and jumped into his chest, you buried your face in his neck, just trying not to cry, seeking out his old stink like dirt and dog and chocolate underneath the cigarettes and exhaust, piss and ancient leather, the whisky reek and all the mess that has to be New York but maybe it’s just leftover from when his dead dad wore that fuck off ugly jacket, and there was a brief second or two of freedom, where everything stopped feeling hopeless and you weren’t the rat bastard fuck up older brother who saddled Isaac with his suicidal thoughts but still hasn’t told him that that’s how Mom died, too, that’s how you found her body, which is why you keep coming back to hanging.

Because when you slammed into his body, Derek held you gently in some tender way that you’re not used to, closed into his chest like something precious, while you clung at him like at some one last chance, and you squeezed him hard and tight enough to scare the breath out of his lungs, and even then, you didn’t know how much you’d missed him, not until you laughed against his skin as though your life depended on it, desperately, half-wild, gasping, and when you had the wind back in you, muttered,  _you didn’t have to come and get me asshole_.

Because even through your camo jacket, his hands found your spine and all its knots of tension, and he worked one over as he told you, _Yeah, well, I wanted to. We can’t go see that Peppermint Patti Lupine person play Mama Rhododendron or whatever if you don’t get here in one piece, you know._

Because he just wanted to get you riled up by getting all the names wrong on purpose, because he was looking for a reaction and you both knew it, and the only thing your brain and body let you do was laugh because that was just so like him, you almost couldn’t pull it together enough to say,  _Her **name** is Patti Lupone, she is  **playing** Mama Rose, and if you say one goddamn word about Stephen Songbird Jingleheimer-Schmidt, I’ll turn your tight little ass into a fur fucking coat, okay?_

Because he refused to let go first and you held on for long enough, all the people at the baggage claim had to think you guys are fucking — which is funny, now, considering what you want to do to him and how and why.

Difference crackles in the air like some white noise machine, which makes sense because he’s changed, and you’ve changed, and both of you have changed and maybe you are not yourself. Maybe you’re different people, lying here in someone else’s flat, hearts still beating, chests still rising and falling and rising and falling. Bodies still alive but they’re not really yours.

Except you roll onto your side to look at him and he’s still Derek, or enough of the Derek you remember that all the new parts seem less jarring, and none of this does shit about shit about how much you still want to suck his cock. He’s Derek Hale — Derek _Jeremiah_ Hale — and he's still himself and your best friend, still as subtle as a bullet to the head and still one of the only people on the entire planet you can trust. He’s familiar and he’s beautiful and he’s lying right here next to you, silent, warm, and sturdy, only moving because that’s what breathing does to people’s chests, blue-green eyes blinking at the unfathomable ceiling and his arms bigger than you left them when you shipped out for basic, wrapped up in more muscle than you remember them having ever before.

And you can’t see the stars inside this light-drowned city, but you can make out Derek perfectly, fluorescent bright, and you want to suck his cock so badly that you’re salivating.

You want to work him over, lips and tongue and teeth and mouth, all up and down his shaft and foreskin, until he’s whimpering your name and blacking out from just how good you’ve gotten at this one thing, this one act that plays at intimacy because you’re great at sex and shit at everything else you know of.

You want to fuck him, or maybe to have him fuck you, or to let him use your body seven ways from Sunday in any damn position as long as it let you breathe him in, as long as it let you feel close to someone who as yet doesn’t know the kind of worthless trash you are, because at least then you can be good for something, or you can pretend you are, if he can find some kind of use and put your body to it.

Because that’s the only thing that you’ve been or ever will be good for, in any context: bending wherever people shove you and doing what they say and choking on your own tongue before putting a single toe outside the lines except if it’s to save your brother, and you’ve never really done that even half-right to begin with.

Because you’re twenty-one and there’s nothing worth it waiting for you anywhere and the only thing that’s left is nuzzling your way over into Derek’s side, curling into him, the new smells and the old, and telling him you want to kiss him, it’s the only thing that you can think about right now, because if he’s into the idea, then he might let you suck his cock and if you do it properly, then he might turn you into something valuable, into something not yourself.

Because you’re twenty-one and home on leave and you want your best friend’s werewolf junk inside your mouth — you want that before he asks if you’re okay, before you lie and say you’re fine because he can hear your heart beat faster but you need an excuse for lying to yourself, before you ask if you can kiss him and before you scrape your lips over his sandpaper stubble, remembering all the times you’ve thought of this before, tried to imagine how he’d kiss you and what he’d taste like — and you ignore around the part where, underwhelmingly, his mouth tastes only like a mouth (warm and wet and muddled, but just like all the other boys you’ve kissed before), without some special secret ingredient that you can’t define but somehow recognize as _Derek_.

Because you’re twenty-one and fucking broken and this kiss is all you have to cling to — this kiss, Derek’s lips welcoming yours in or letting yours devour him, Derek’s hair and the way his arm curls tenderly around your waist, as though he’s afraid that he might break you — and strewn amongst the clinging is still that litter of desire: you want to swallow down his fucking werewolf cock until you gag and choke and forget that your own death would be a favor, really, or perhaps some kind of gift.

Because you’re twenty-one and still alive and nothing matters anymore. Nothing except for Isaac, and he’d be better off without you anyway, so there’s no more point to anything, not any of it.


End file.
